Last Cigarette
by Rulisu
Summary: Axel is strung out and his subconscious is quickly getting tired of Roxas. People who ride the bus tend to be the most interesting, do they not?


Dear god, someone shoot me.

I have an interview in five hours and instead of sleeping, I'm churning out another mediocre one-shot.  
But I tried to sleep! Honest!

The creative part of my brain that insists on running 24/7, 365 however, has other plans for me.  
Moving on...

**Musical Inspiration:** "From Yesterday"- 30 seconds to Mars

**Dedication:** My readers, reviewers, little sister and muse. (Not the band. My vice president, who keeps me sane and is awesome beyond human capacity. Oh you know, you know.)

**Warning:** Axel's internal monologue has a filthy mouth and I have a sick mind.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own or claim to own any characters, names or places that belong to Tetsuya Nomura and Squeenix. If I did, I'd be writing this from my flat in Kyoto. But alas...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Cold. Freezing, biting, nagging cold. I hate it. The way it numbs my face and seeps in through my jacket and attaches its self to my skin like some clingy girlfriend. Could be worse, though. It could be snowing. Or raining. Or dead summer and hotter than hell. Guess I don't really like anything, do I?

And where the fuck is the bus? I've been waiting over an hour. Did the driver have a heart attack or something? Or is my watch a half-hour off? It might be. It's happened before.

I dig in my pockets for my MP3 player. Only lint, a lighter and loose change. I think it got stolen. It wouldn't surprise me, though it pisses me off. My life was on that thing. Well... more or less. I doubt I could get a bottle of Jack Daniel's and an eightball into it's tiny plastic casing. Regardless...

Fuckin' bus is finally here. It's airbrakes sound like they hate their job more than the driver of the metal monstrosity. He glares at me while I dig in my jacket pocket for my bus pass. It's wrinkled and the metallic strip barely passes it's digital read test. The overweight son of a bitch decides to take off again while I'm trying to run it through and the jerking of the bus almost sends me toppling to the left. As if my equilibrium wasn't fucked enough. Thanks a lot, underpaid city worker. I hope you get Lupus.

I take a seat at the very back in the same cold, hard, uncomfortable plastic ass receptors that can be found on any bus, anytime, anywhere. Stained with vomit, body grime and fuck knows what else. I try not to think of how many derelicts have sat here. How many disease-infested prostitutes and sniveling, snotting, sick children. I'm not much higher up on the foodchain than the aforementioned pimples on the ass of society, but I still don't want to think about it.

It's late, so we pass many empty stops. For once today, I'm thankful. I don't think my stomach could take the tugging, wrenching stops these things make. As it is, I think my ramen is about to show up for an encore. Pressing a hand to my stomach doesn't help, but I mindfuck myself into believing it does. Slowly, the pain fades, though the lump of impending vomit and the sick, sour-to-taste saliva collecting at the base of my throat does not.

I stare out the window, my forehead pressed to the fogged glass. Neon everywhere and people and filth, filth, filth. Sad as it may seem, most of the run-down eyesores that litter the sidestreets we pass would be an upgrade from what I'm heading 'home' to. Finally, much to my irritation, the bus stops. It's too dark to see who's getting on until I see a head of blond spikes jutting up from behind the bulletproof divider.

Then shoulders, broader than mine, though not by much. Then a slim waist around which a pair of loose bluejeans sit. The boy with blond spikes slides his card and is subjected to the same impatience of the driver that I was. Swaying with the movement of the bus, the boy makes his way down the aisle. Towards the back. Why? Why?! Can't I sit alone? Is that so much to ask?

He smiles at me before sitting in the seat in front of mine. He reminds me of someone. My old teacher. Mr. Strife had been his name, though I only remember it because I'd mock him for it every chance I got. Now the punchline of the joke escapes me and I begin to wonder why I ever found it so damn chuckle-worthy in the first place.

The kid turns around, his blue eyes scanning me. Evaluating me like a piece of meat. Something in me wants to hiss at him and make him turn back around or at least move a couple of seats forward. I don't like the way he smells. It's a crisp smell. Too clean. Like laundry or a freshly mopped floor. But he's smiling.

"I'm Roxas." he holds out his hand and I take it. It's warm and soft and I can almost feel his pulse in the palm.

"Axel." I say without much enthusiasm.

"Where are ya headed, Axel?" he asks with that same grin.

"Hell." I sigh. He chuckles. It wasn't supposed to be funny.

"You too, eh?" through rows of perfect teeth. I shrug.

A moment or two passes, and he doesn't look away, though he's stopped smiling.

"You got a staring problem, kid?" I snap. Easier to snap without the smile, though it's back now.

"So I've been told."

Smartass.

"I'm too fucked to come up with something clever, so I'm just gonna ask you to turn around, okay?" I mumble, feeling the bile thrumming in my abdomen again.

"Fucked?"

"Loaded. Go away."

"Why?"

"You've got great teeth, kid. Don't make me have to change that."

"You're rude."

"So I've been told."

The smartass prettyboy turns back around in his seat and I begin making shapes in his spikes. Didn't know that was entirely possible, but in this mindset, I'm fucking Superman. A few more minutes goes by when he turns around completely, digging his knees into the seat, leaning over and shoving a finger in my face close enough for me to see the remnants of black glitter nailpolish. Glitter? Really, prettyboy?

"What are those?" he asks, pointing to my face.

"What do they look like?"

"Tattoos."

"Well there ya go."

"Why'd you get 'em?"

Fucking relentless.

"My brother and I have a matching set. His are different." I humor him.

"What's his look like?"

"By now? They don't look like anything. They've rotted off his skull with the rest of his flesh."

"Oh... so he's dead."

"Perceptive." I sigh.

"How'd he die?"

I swear, if he looked a day over fourteen I'd have socked him by now.

"I don't know. All I was told is that he died."

"Not very close with your family, are you?" he sounds sad for me.

"Not at all."

"How old was he?"

"Twenty-three." I grumble, my patience wearing thin as the bugs that had been chasing me in my head all night start materializing on the window. I only now notice that his black shirt has the words "Pure Morning" written across it in the most basic of white fonts. No doubt the band name is on the back. Two points for good taste.

"And how old are _you?_"

"The same." I say, stretching out my neck. "We were twins."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

There's more silence, but the brat won't turn back around.

"You smoke?" he prods me further, his eyes an obnoxious blue.

"Does it matter?"

"Can I have a cigarette?"

"You're assuming I smoke and that I give cigarettes to minors."

"I'm assuming you smoke and you don't give a fuck." he smirks.

Nail on the head, kid. Nail on the head.

"Whatever..." I mumble, pulling out a crushed pack of menthols, handing him one. He tucks it behind his ear and thanks me. He turns back around and doesn't say another word. We pass a few more streets and I pull the wire, hearing that ding that drives me up a fucking wall when the bus is full of people who can't bear to walk the fifty yard difference between stops. I stand, shuddering when I see those confounded fucking bugs crawling in the lap of the blond.

"Nice meeting you." he smiles. I say nothing and walk off the bus.

It's colder now, if that was even fucking possible. By a couple degrees maybe, but it's a noticeable difference to me. Suddenly, I fall to my knees and unleash what I am surprised lasted an entire jostling busride. Chunks of white noodles and yellow, foul smelling liquid smacks the pavement and I follow suit, my face connecting painfully with the cold ground.

No one is around to see me fall. No one would care, anyway.

The world is spinning and I'm falling again. Into darkness and a real motherfucker of a headache. At least when I'm here, the bugs can't get me. Or the whirlwind of withered voices that haunt me day to day. But I still hate feeling like this. Fucking hate it. Like the cold, and the rain and the heat and didn't we already go over this?

Rolling onto my back, I look up at the sky. For a moment, I'm reminded of why I used to be fascinated by it. It's beautiful, even more so when you can feel the earth turning beneath you as I can now. Much less beautiful when you're all alone, though.

I hate being alone.

Hate, hate, hate. That's all I've ever done. So... maybe I deserve this? What_ is_ this, anyway? An overdose? _The_ overdose? I guess we'll find out. God damn, I hope I wake up in the hospital this time. I hate ambulances. The paramedics are like over-protective mothers and that charcoal shit is gritty and tastes nothing like blueberry, as the label promises it will.

I kinda like this feeling. I'm warm. After squirming a bit to avoid my own puke, I sit up. A car or two passes in a blur of shining metal and red tail lights. My head is throbbing harder and jesus fuck does it hurt. I stick my hand into my pockets again. Searching, searching, searching.

And then I realize with a groan and a rush of self-loathing...

I gave that kid my last god damned cigarette.

- - - - - - - - - - -

I'm not gonna lie.  
I loved this one.

First time writing in first person, too.

So, did Axel die? Maybe, maybe not. Make up your own ending on this one.

By the way, a big 'ol mushy, yummy cookie to whoever can guess what the band name on the back of Roxas's shirt would be.

And no cheating!

Reviews are my drug of choice. Gimme mah fix.


End file.
